< Raccoon City – Outskirts – Decommissioned Cold War Bunker – MC POV >
Mmm, that was such a weird dream. It was fun though, but I got to get up and go to work.
As Soren slowly opened his eyes, his mind still waking up from the long and exhausting assimilation process—
DING!
[ASSIMILATION COMPLETE]
The voice of the system rang in Soren's mind, pulling him back to reality.
The fluorescent light above him was far too bright for his eyes. He looked around and saw the room—an old, small medical space. He was hooked up to medical machines monitoring his condition as he lay on a hospital-style bed.
He blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the harsh light. Everything felt off. Not painful, not exactly—but unfamiliar, like his body didn't quite belong to him yet.
Slowly, Soren tried to move his hand. It responded, stiff at first. His fingers twitched slightly before curling inward, and he stared at them for a moment, watching the motion as if it belonged to someone else.
"…I'm alive," he muttered.
The words felt strange coming out of his mouth.
Memories began to surface in fragments. The mansion. The lab. The Tyrants. The final fight. His expression tightened slightly as he recalled the impact, the claws tearing through him, and the moment everything went dark.
And then nothing.
Until now.
His gaze shifted toward the machines beside him, the steady beeping filling the otherwise quiet room. The monitors displayed readings he didn't fully understand at a glance, but one thing was clear—they weren't normal.
Of course they weren't.
He exhaled quietly and leaned his head back against the pillow. "Assimilation complete…" he repeated under his breath.
So it worked. Or at least… something worked.
Carefully, he pushed himself up. The moment he did, every muscle in his body tensed—not from pain, but from pressure. A subtle heat pulsed beneath his skin, steady and constant, like something was moving through him that hadn't been there before.
His jaw clenched slightly. "Yeah… definitely not normal."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touching the cold floor. For a second, he remained still, letting his body adjust and grounding himself in the moment before standing.
Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his feet.
There was no dizziness. No weakness. If anything, he felt… stronger.
That alone made him frown.
That wasn't how this was supposed to go.
His eyes moved across the room again, sharper now, taking in details he hadn't noticed before—the age of the equipment, the layout, the reinforced structure beneath the worn surfaces.
This wasn't a hospital.
"…A bunker?"
The realization settled in quickly.
They made it out.
A faint sense of relief passed through him, but it didn't last long. If he was here, then the others had to be somewhere nearby—and more importantly…
"How long was I out…?"
The question lingered without an answer.
He took a step forward, testing his balance, then another. Each movement felt more natural than the last, his body syncing with itself at an almost unnatural pace.
Soren flexed his hand again, watching the subtle movement of muscle beneath his skin. There was power there—quiet, controlled, but undeniable.
His gaze shifted toward the corner of the room where a simple brown wooden door stood. It looked out of place compared to everything else in the bunker. No reinforced steel, no locking mechanisms—just a normal door.
That alone made him pause for a second.
Then he walked toward it.
Each step felt steady and grounded. His body responded naturally now—too naturally. When he reached the door, he placed his hand on the handle and pushed it open.
It led into a small restroom.
Nothing special. A sink. A mirror. Worn tiles that had seen better days. Everything about it looked… normal.
Soren stepped inside slowly, his eyes lifting toward the mirror.
And for the first time—
He saw himself.
He stopped.
His reflection stared back at him, and the first thing he noticed were his eyes.
His pupils had narrowed into reptilian slits, and the color had changed as well. Where once there had been calm blue, there was now a dark, mute orange that looked almost red in the dim light.
Soren stared at himself in silence, the weight of that realization settling in faster than he wanted.
Wesker's eyes.
Not sunglasses. Not shadow. Not imagination.
Real.
His gaze lingered there for a moment longer before drifting downward.
That's when he noticed the rest.
A hospital gown.
His clothes were gone.
He looked down at his body, taking it in properly now. His frame hadn't changed in size, but it was… refined. Every muscle looked denser, sharper, more pronounced, like his body had been stripped down and rebuilt with unnatural precision.
Stronger.
He could feel it.
His hand moved to his chest—to the exact spot where the Tyrant had pierced him.
Nothing.
No scar.
No mark.
No sign that anything had ever happened.
His fingers lingered there, pressing lightly against bare skin as if expecting to feel torn flesh or broken bone beneath it.
"…That's not possible."
The words left his mouth automatically, but even as he said them, he knew that wasn't true.
It was possible.
He knew exactly what this was supposed to look like.
In the original story, Wesker died and came back stronger. Faster. Beyond human. Soren knew that better than anyone.
But that wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
Wesker only survived because William Birkin had given him the experimental serum before the mansion incident. That was what allowed his body to adapt after death.
Soren never took it.
He knew that for a fact.
Which meant there was only one explanation.
His eyes slowly lifted back to the mirror, locking onto those slit pupils and that dark orange color that looked almost red.
"…System."
That was the only answer that made any sense.
A slow breath left him.
"Of course it's the system."
He looked around the restroom again, trying to ground himself. The sink looked old but functional. The mirror was slightly worn, its edges chipped with age. Everything about the room was plain and ordinary.
Except him.
Soren stepped closer to the sink and placed his hands on the edge, leaning forward slightly as he studied his reflection again.
The moment his fingers tightened, a sharp crack split the silence.
He froze.
Then looked down.
The ceramic beneath his hands fractured instantly, deep cracks spreading outward from where his fingers gripped it. Before he could react, the entire edge of the sink gave way and crumbled under the pressure.
Soren pulled his hands back immediately, staring at the damage.
"…I didn't even try."
He looked at his hands, then back at the broken sink.
And that realization hit harder than anything else so far.
He hadn't forced it.
Hadn't pushed.
That was just normal now.
The sound hit first.
A heavy metallic groan echoed through the bunker as the reinforced door outside the room unlocked and slid open. It was loud enough to carry through the walls, sharp and unmistakable in the otherwise quiet space.
Soren's head turned immediately toward the sound.
Footsteps followed—fast, urgent.
More than one set.
He stepped out of the restroom, stopping halfway into the main room just as Rebecca and Frost rushed in.
They both froze.
For a split second, no one moved.
Frost's reaction came first. His posture stiffened slightly, instinct taking over as his eyes ran over Soren quickly, checking for anything off—anything wrong. There was relief there, clear as day, but it sat behind caution. He didn't step forward immediately, didn't speak, just watched him like a soldier assessing a situation that didn't make sense.
Rebecca didn't hesitate.
"Soren—!"
She crossed the distance between them in an instant and threw her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace before he could even react.
The impact caught him off guard.
Her grip tightened, fingers clutching at the back of his gown as if letting go wasn't an option. He felt her shoulders shake slightly, her breath uneven as the reality of it hit her all at once.
He was awake.
Alive.
For a moment, Soren didn't move.
Then slowly, instinctively, his arms lifted and rested against her back.
"…Hey," he said quietly, still trying to process everything happening at once.
Rebecca didn't respond right away. The relief hit her harder than anything else, and the tears came with it—silent at first, then harder to hold back.
Two months.
Two months of watching him not move, not respond, not knowing if he would ever wake up.
And now—
He was standing right in front of her.
Alive.
Her grip tightened slightly before she suddenly froze.
The realization hit her all at once.
What she was doing.
Where she was.
Who else was in the room.
She pulled back quickly, her hands lingering for only a fraction of a second before letting go completely. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked at him—really looked at him—and for a brief moment, Soren saw it.
Not relief.
Not confusion.
Panic.
Not because of him—
Because of what she had just done.
The memory hit her all at once.
Jill.
That conversation.
The promise she made.
That she would never do anything to hurt her… never cross that line.
And yet—
She had just thrown herself into his arms without thinking.
Her expression shifted almost instantly, the emotion locking behind something else as she took a step back.
"I— I'm sorry, I didn't—" she started, her voice catching before she could finish.
She didn't wait.
Didn't give him a chance to respond.
Rebecca turned and moved past Frost quickly, almost too quickly, heading straight for the door.
"Rebecca—" Frost called after her, but she didn't stop.
The heavy door slid open again, and she was gone.
The room fell quiet.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Frost exhaled slowly, running a hand across the back of his neck as he shifted his attention back to Soren.
"…Well," he said after a second, his tone settling somewhere between relief and something harder to define, "you picked one hell of a time to wake up."
His eyes narrowed slightly as he took Soren in more carefully now—the stance, the presence, the subtle differences that didn't quite match the man he remembered.
There was still caution there.
Not hostility.
Not yet.
Just enough to matter.
"…You good?" he asked, more direct this time.
Soren met his gaze, aware now that this wasn't just a reunion—it was a test.
And Frost wasn't the only one who felt that.
Soren held Frost's gaze for a moment longer, then exhaled quietly and turned away. Whatever tension was there didn't disappear—but it shifted, set aside for something more immediate.
He walked back toward the bed and sat down slowly, the movement more deliberate this time. His body felt stable, controlled, but there was still something unfamiliar beneath the surface, something he hadn't fully grasped yet.
Frost pulled a chair over without a word and sat across from him, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. For a second, he just looked at Soren, like he was making sure he was actually there.
"…You've been out for almost two months," Frost said.
Soren blinked once, processing that.
"Two… months?"
Frost nodded. "Coma. No response, no movement. Rebecca's been monitoring you the entire time. Barely left your side."
That explained the reaction.
Soren leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair before letting it fall to his side.
"…Figures."
Frost studied him for another second, then continued.
"When Jill, Chris, and Barry got back to the R.P.D., they reported that the rest of us didn't make it. Said Rebecca, you… and me were killed in the facility."
Soren's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Smart," he muttered. "Keeps us off the radar."
Frost gave a small nod. "Yeah. It worked—for now."
He shifted slightly in his chair before continuing.
"They still tried to push what they had. Rebecca's data—the research she pulled from the lab. Irons shut it down immediately. Suspended all three of them. Said the evidence was obtained illegally and couldn't be used."
Soren let out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and a suppressed groan.
"…Of course he did."
He dragged a hand down his face, already knowing exactly how that would play out.
"That was always going to happen," he said. "Irons was never going to let that go public."
Frost didn't argue.
"Three days after that, Chris and Barry went to Jill's apartment. They wanted her to come with them. They're heading to Europe—trying to gather evidence on Umbrella from the outside."
Soren's eyes lifted slightly.
"Europe…" he repeated quietly.
That lined up.
"Jill refused," Frost added. "She wasn't leaving while you were still out. Said she'd go once you woke up."
Soren didn't respond right away. He just nodded once, the weight of that settling in.
Frost continued.
"Problem is, Umbrella didn't let things sit. They started watching her. Heavy. Made it impossible for her to come back here."
That made Soren's expression harden.
"…Yeah."
"The last time she was here was a little under two months ago," Frost said. "After that, she had to find another way to help."
Soren looked up again. "What did she do?"
Frost glanced toward the door briefly before answering.
"She went to Robert Kendo. Gun shop owner. Friend of hers. Told him everything."
That got Soren's full attention.
"…Kendo."
Frost nodded. "He's been moving supplies for us. Weapons, food, whatever we need. Quiet. Off the radar."
Soren exhaled slowly, piecing everything together.
Chris and Barry in Europe.
Jill under surveillance.
Umbrella tightening control.
Rebecca here—working on the virus.
His eyes shifted slightly.
"The sample," he said. "The T-Virus… it's still here, isn't it?"
Frost gave a small nod. "Rebecca never stopped working on it. Says whatever's happening to you… it's not just infection."
That didn't surprise him.
It confirmed it.
Soren's expression sharpened.
"…How long since the mansion incident?" he asked.
Frost frowned slightly. "About two months. Why?"
Soren didn't answer immediately.
Because he already knew.
The timeline wasn't just lining up—
It was catching up.
Raccoon City.
The outbreak.
Nemesis.
His eyes darkened.
"She's in danger," he said.
Frost straightened slightly. "What?"
Soren stood.
Not slowly this time.
Decisive.
"I have to go after her."
Frost stood as well, stepping into his path. "You just woke up. You don't even know what condition you're in."
"I know enough," Soren replied, already moving toward the door.
Frost didn't budge. "Soren—slow down. You're not thinking straight."
Soren stopped.
Looked at him.
Really looked at him.
"This isn't a guess," he said, his voice lower now, more controlled—but more dangerous. "If I'm right, Umbrella isn't just watching her."
A brief pause.
"They're about to move."
Frost held his gaze, searching for hesitation.
There wasn't any.
"…You're serious," he said.
Soren didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Soren met Frost's gaze, but this time the intensity behind his eyes shifted. The sharp, almost predatory focus softened as the tunnel vision cleared, his shoulders lowering slightly as he exhaled.
"…Yeah," he said, calmer now. "Sorry."
He ran a hand through his hair, grounding himself before continuing.
"I can't really explain it," Soren added, his voice steady again, controlled. "But the rest of the team is in danger. If I know Umbrella—and I do—they won't just sit on this. They'll try to clean house… or take her."
His expression hardened slightly.
"Use her to get to the rest of us."
A brief pause.
"They have a lot worse things than what we saw back in the mansion."
Frost didn't respond immediately.
He just looked at him.
And for the first time since Soren woke up, Frost saw it—the man he had stood beside back in the mansion. Not the cold, unreadable figure from minutes ago, not whatever had just stepped out of that coma, but the same man who had nearly broken in that cemetery. The one who had been honest, raw, human.
The one he trusted.
Frost exhaled slowly, some of that tension leaving his posture.
"…Then I'm coming with you," he said.
Soren shook his head immediately.
"No."
Frost frowned. "No?"
"I need you here," Soren said, meeting his gaze directly. "Rebecca can't be alone. Not right now."
Frost's jaw tightened slightly. "She won't be alone if—"
"That's not the point," Soren cut in, not harsh, but firm. "If what I think is about to happen actually happens, this place becomes more than just a bunker."
Frost didn't interrupt this time.
He listened.
"I'm not just going after Jill," Soren continued. "When this starts… when the outbreak hits, people are going to die. A lot of them."
His voice lowered slightly.
"But not all of them have to."
Frost's expression shifted.
Understanding.
Soren gestured slightly around them.
"This place… this is the safest location we have. Reinforced, hidden, stocked. This becomes the fallback point."
His eyes locked onto Frost's.
"The safe point."
Frost exhaled slowly, running a hand across the back of his neck, already knowing where this was going.
"You want me to stay," he said.
"I need you to stay," Soren corrected.
A brief silence passed between them.
"I'm going to get Jill," Soren continued, more quietly now. "And I'm going to pull in as many people as I can on the way back. Anyone I can save, I'm bringing them here."
Frost let out a quiet breath, looking away for a moment before nodding slightly.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "That sounds like you."
There was reluctance there.
But also acceptance.
"…Fine," he added after a second. "I stay. Hold the fort. Keep Rebecca safe."
His eyes shifted back to Soren.
"But you better not get yourself killed out there."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Soren's mouth.
"I already tried that once," he said. "Didn't stick."
That got a quiet huff out of Frost.
"…Yeah. Don't make it a habit."
Soren nodded once, then turned toward the door.
"I'll be back," he said.
Frost didn't stop him this time.
< Bunker – Armory >
The armory door slid open with a low mechanical hum, revealing a space that immediately made Soren pause.
"…Damn."
The room was fully stocked.
Not scavenged. Not improvised.
Organized.
Deliberate.
Racks lined the walls, filled with military-grade firearms—assault rifles, carbines, precision rifles—all maintained to pristine condition. Crates were stacked along the sides, neatly labeled and sealed, each one containing ammunition sorted by caliber and type.
Tactical gear hung from reinforced mounts—plate carriers fitted with loaded magazines, combat rigs, helmets, gloves, and reinforced boots. Everything was high quality, not civilian-grade, not something you just found lying around.
Military.
Or better.
Soren stepped further inside, his eyes moving across the equipment with growing surprise.
"…Where the hell did all this come from?"
He reached out, picking up a rifle from one of the racks, inspecting it instinctively. Clean. Balanced. Ready to use.
Not old stock.
Not surplus.
This was recent.
His gaze shifted toward a crate of explosives—carefully packed, secured, labeled. Breaching charges. Frag grenades. Even heavier ordinance stored deeper within the room.
This wasn't just a bunker.
It was a war cache.
Soren let out a slow breath, setting the rifle back into place.
"…Kendo," he muttered.
It made sense now.
Jill hadn't just been surviving on the outside.
She had been preparing.
For him.
For this.
His expression shifted, something heavier settling behind his eyes.
"…You really didn't wait."
For a brief moment, he just stood there, taking it all in.
Then the moment passed.
Soren stepped forward, reaching for gear.
Because now—
There wasn't time to hesitate.
Soren stepped deeper into the armory, his eyes moving with purpose now. The surprise from earlier faded quickly, replaced by focus.
He wasn't gearing up for a war. Not yet. He needed speed. Control. Precision. Stealth.
He moved toward a rack of clothing and pulled free a fitted black tactical long-sleeved shirt, followed by matching pants. The material was light but durable, designed for movement rather than protection. He changed quickly, the fabric settling against his body like it had been made for him.
The boots came next—black military-grade, reinforced, broken in just enough to feel natural. He laced them tight, grounding himself with the simple, familiar motion. Soren exhaled quietly as he stood, rolling his shoulders once before moving on.
Weapons.
He reached for a shoulder holster first, slipping it on and adjusting the straps until it sat comfortably against his frame. From a nearby rack, he picked up an H&K MK23 already fitted with a suppressor. The weight of it felt right in his hand. Reliable. Controlled. He slid it into the holster beneath his arm, then grabbed two extra magazines and secured them on the opposite side.
His attention shifted next to the heavier firepower. Two Desert Eagles rested on the rack, their presence almost excessive—but he took them anyway. One for each thigh holster. He strapped the holsters into place with practiced efficiency before settling each weapon into position. The weight was noticeable, but not burdensome. Just… there. His movements didn't slow, didn't strain. That alone told him everything he needed to know.
Soren's gaze shifted across the room again, pausing as something caught his attention. A case. Sleek. Minimal. Out of place in a room filled with conventional gear. He stepped toward it and flipped it open.
Inside—two short swords rested in perfect alignment.
Black. Simple. No unnecessary design. No decoration. Just purpose.
Soren reached down and picked one up, testing the balance instinctively. It felt solid. Heavy enough to matter, but not enough to slow him down. A small note rested inside the case. He picked it up, scanning it quickly. S7 tool steel. High impact resistance. Edges dipped in tungsten steel.
Soren let out a quiet breath, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "…Of course they are."
He set the note aside and grabbed the second blade, adjusting his grip briefly before moving to secure both. He positioned them along the arch of his back, one on each side, angled outward for easy draw—right and left.
"Scout carry… I think," he muttered to himself.
It felt natural. Too natural. He rolled his shoulders slightly, testing the placement. No restriction. No imbalance. Good.
His eyes swept the armory one last time before landing on something hanging near the exit. A long black trench coat. Soren stared at it for a second, then shook his head slightly. "…No way."
A pause.
Then he stepped forward anyway.
He pulled it on, the coat settling around him as if completing something that had already been set in motion. Soren glanced down at himself, then let out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath.
"Never thought I'd actually dress like Wesker from RE5," he muttered. "Tacky as hell…"
A faint pause.
"…and yet here we are."
He reached for a pair of black leather gloves and slid them on, adjusting the fit with practiced ease. Everything was in place.
Almost.
Soren stopped just before the door, something tugging at the back of his mind. His eyes. Right.
He turned slightly and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from a nearby shelf, slipping them on without hesitation. Not for him. For everyone else. If they saw his eyes… yeah. That wasn't a conversation he was ready to have. Not yet. Not like this.
His jaw tightened slightly before relaxing again. One step at a time.
With that, Soren turned and walked out of the armory. His path was already set.
Rebecca.
He needed to see her before he left.
Soren could hear Rebecca crying inside the room, the door slightly open. He took a deep breath as he knew he had to talk to her before he left, but this conversation—this topic—was too complicated.
He may not have picked up the signs back in the mansion and the lab, but he wasn't an idiot. He had figured out that Rebecca had feelings for him, but he only saw her as a dear friend—a sister. And to crush her heart… he didn't know how to do that, or if he even could.
He shook his head and knocked twice.
A few moments later, Rebecca's muffled voice came from inside.
"Come in."
Soren stepped into the dimly lit room. At the far right corner, Rebecca was sitting with her back to the door, wiping her face.
He only took one step inside before she spoke.
"You're leaving."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Soren replied. "The rest of the team is in danger. I need to get them out."
He said the same thing he told Frost, but his voice was quieter now, like his mind was somewhere else.
"Why?" Rebecca asked. "Why do you always do that? Run off straight into danger?"
Soren didn't have an answer.
So he didn't say anything.
Silence settled between them for a few moments.
Then Soren spoke.
"Rebecca, Jill and I—"
"I know," she cut in. "I'm sorry… but I can't exactly tell my feelings to fuck off."
A bitter laugh escaped her at the end.
Soren felt it. The pain in her voice, the weight behind her words—it tightened something in his chest.
"I'm sorry, Rebecca," he said quietly. "I'm sorry that I can't make your pain go away… or that I have to be the one to hurt you."
There was nothing else he could say.
So he turned and stepped toward the door.
Just before he left, her voice stopped him.
"Be careful."
Soren paused, then looked over his shoulder.
"I will."
And then he left.
The bunker doors opened with a heavy mechanical groan, the sound echoing behind him as Soren stepped forward. Cold air rushed in immediately, carrying the scent of rain and something distant, something uneasy.
He stopped at the threshold.
Rain poured steadily outside, the dim light of the overcast sky casting everything in a muted gray. For a moment, he just stood there, looking out into it.
Then footsteps approached from behind.
Soren didn't turn right away.
Frost came up beside him and held out a black hat.
"It'll help cover your face more," he said. "Just in case."
Soren took it without a word at first, turning it slightly in his hands before putting it on. The brim cast a faint shadow over his face, adding to the concealment.
Frost reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone, handing it over.
"Untraceable," he added.
Soren looked at him then.
Really looked at him.
"…Thanks," he said, his voice sincere.
Frost gave a small nod, like that was enough, then stepped back.
"Bring her back," he said.
Soren didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Frost turned and walked back into the bunker, the heavy doors beginning to close behind him. The sound echoed again, sealing Soren off from the only safe place left.
Alone.
Soren stepped out into the rain.
The cold water soaked into his clothes almost instantly, but he didn't react to it. His focus had already shifted forward, toward what came next.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the phone.
For a moment, he just held it there.
Then he dialed.
The number came from memory.
Not his.
Wesker's.
The line rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
A voice answered.
"Hello."
Cold. Female.
Soren didn't hesitate.
"Ada Wong," he said, his tone calm, controlled. "This is Wesker. I have a job for you. Interested?"